The more I think about it, the more I believe my adopted country’s problem is systemic, not a viral or bacterial threat but an inherent flaw in the gene that the founding fathers did not anticipate, but were wise enough to establish contingencies for. The founding fathers never intended for a bi-partisan system, for example, nor did they want the peoples’ vote to count as much as the ruling body of intelligentsia’s. Somewhere along the line the free, equal republic that Jefferson and Franklin dreamed of degenerated into this mockery of democracy, an oligarchy where the rift between the rich and the poor grow wider every day. It is vile irony that the tyrant Britain of yesteryear has now, today, a diverse and effective Parliament rich with educated, perceptive representatives.

How is it, now, that our politicians daily make fools of themselves and are not forced out of their seats? If Japanese officials ever even said something like the quotes Jon Stewart finds, they would resign straightaway. How is it that CEOs can swindle titanic amounts of money from the US government and get away scott-free? How is it that we’re the only first-world country without universal health care? How is it that our media is ruled by a few, coordinated sources that taint our views with one-sided bullshit? What once was supposed to be a watchdog of democracy is now the snarling Dobermans they sic on you in an Auschwitz concentration camp. But I digress.

See, all of these questions and problems have a root. This root lies at the core of American identity, an identity that our founding fathers did not share. Jefferson and Franklin were wealthy men, powerful men, but more importantly learned men. They were not immigrant America, nor poor America, and definitely not uneducated America. They assumed that the rule of the people would be given to wise, intelligent people capable of making decisions for the good of all. Unfortunately, some of these intelligent people have realized that a fresh-off-the-boat naturalized man wanting only to feed his family and eke out a better life is the ultimate dupe.

Once you realize that, everything else makes perfect sense. Our politicians were chosen by people who cannot tell the difference between logic and rhetoric, and so what seems like abyssal madness to a learned man sounds pretty much alright to a layman. CEOs swindle money by offering small amounts of it to people who need it, who then shut the hell up. Insurance companies can shut down any effort towards universal health care simply by confusing the issue, because a layman simply cannot be bothered to figure out how insurance works, what with his mounting credit card payments and a mortgage he should have gotten at half the price. Our media employs the same tactic; hell, the New York Times is only written at fifth grade reading level.

If we, as a society, have decided Wikipedia is not worthy of gracing the bibliography of a high schooler’s term paper, why have we decided politicians are worthy of important legislative decisions? Why is an opinion worth more simply because more people share it? Why have we decided to support the causes we agree with using monetary means? If a dollar is our vote, then the man with the most dollars has the most votes. Democracy does not work if the people are unequal to begin with. Most of the people in the United States do not have the money, the information, the education, the time, nor even the health to pursue any kind of self-betterment. Many of those things overlap. Forty percent of us don’t even have health insurance, and the insurance we have is rated thirty-fourth in the world!

Wake the hell up America. Our democracy is killing us. If we want to have a true democracy, we have to decide right now that some peoples’ opinions simply don’t count. If a politician has anything to gain from his office, he cannot have it. If a company is not regulated and watched for a job, they should not have the contract. If a man wants to buy out the last newspaper in town he does not own, he should not be allowed to have it. And if the people want to decide who gets to rule them, they should be made worthy to make the choice.

Then I started thinking, well look at it this way, Indians have a long history of financial exploitation in the United Kingdom. While scarcely comparable to our African American history of slavery, Indians have had a long history of servitude and immigrant poverty. Yet, ours is the only country in the world, fifty years after the civil rights movement, that still boasts a native-born ethnic population with the highest percentages of arrest, poverty, and lack of education. It seems to me that a group that’s been here for so long and given so many advantages in compensation for their suffering should have escaped this social bracket already. Every time I see loud, rude Africans on public transport, they are also American. Every time I hear rap artists bragging about horrific crimes I feel a wave of righteous fury; my father was in a triad, and gangs don’t behave this way. Every time I see a name obviously misspelled, like ‘Talisa’ instead of ‘Theresa,’ I feel a gut-punch of literary disgust and a sadness for a punctured culture that can never be regained. Now ‘Mamadou,’ there’s an African name.

This kind of idiocy isn’t limited to the African population, of course. Our own previous president ordered the bombing of a country, the ramifications of which sank us from national surplus to national debt, cost us trillions to a private company whose CEOs were never truly prosecuted, and accomplished the goals of the terrorists responsible: terrorizing us. Our oil companies refuse to listen to our scientists, men who devote their whole lives not to profit but to natural truth, when they tell them our energy supply is going to run out. Instead they dump billions into oil instead of alternative fuel sources, while the industry moves itself along towards clean energy regardless. Our only source of unbiased news comes from a goddamn comedy channel, or internet hobbyists pretending to be journalists.

When George W. Bush Jr decide to declare war on terrorism, exercising a power our own Constitution explicitly reserved for Congress, he was acting on fear of weapons that did not exist.

When Shell decided to pull all their investments into alternative fuels, they did it to preserve their own oil profits. When CNN decides to pull an anchor for saying something too provacative, they do it to preserve their ad revenue.

When an African American tells you his name is spelled right, that its the “way I spell it” and expect that to be an actual reason, he is afraid people will know he is stupid.

Our entire country’s issue is, obviously, an ignorant fear of losing things, losing our dicks being unable to crush an enemy, losing our stable profits in an inevitable industrial evolution, losing face in front of other people just as uneducated and impoverished as we are. Unfortunately, we live in a society that promotes this kind of thought, or lack of thought, a society that now fears for people to know our weakness and inability to succeed. Well here comes the gravy train, chuckleheads! You need to fuck up to succeed. Maybe Americans need to admit to some of these weaknesses, stop fucking with each other in pointless penis-sparring and start helping each other as a nation. Maybe then we can stop being afraid, and start working on some of our problems.

I recently visited MPD on a Tuesday night, hidden away in the shadow of the imposing Standard Hotel. While the nearby Villa Pacri was a barren wasteland, as expected in the beginning of the week, MPD was brim-ful of businessmen and, to be frank, eye candy everywhere. Along one wall sat a party from Moet Chandon, and a steady stream of clientele kept the numerous servers busy well into 11pm.

July was bearing down on the two of us crackling dry, so we deferred the outdoor seating for the cooler interior, just before the bar. Never mind al fresco; the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a great view of river sunset and the gritty vogue warehouse setting of the meatpacking district. True to form, this aesthetic was carried over into the restaurant with thick metal pillars, accented with plenty of subtle floral patterns and luxurious couch seating. A mix of subdued lighting and ambient club music set the mood, evoking supermodels and apartments with elevators for a front door.

The wine list confirmed my suspicions with a wide range of astronomically priced wines and champanges. Our aforementioned Moet was represented par excellence, as well as Dom Perignon and pretty much every way of getting sloshed one can imagine. I took a peek into the bar well, which was filled with bottles of Jack Daniels and Tanqueray.

MPD’s menu did not fall far from this standard either, with a two hundred dollar caviar item tucked neatly in the corner. However, the other menu items were not so shocking, the most expensive entree being the coute de boeuf, or ribeye steak, at thirty-eight dollars. Other entrees included short rib, chicken, salmon and bass, and one decadent-looking lobster pasta dish with entire lobsters sacrificed for each order. Starters included an apparently very popular tuna tartare, beet salad, and crab cake, amongst other selections. All in all, a very classic French menu complete with a poached-egg frisee salad. My girlfriend ordered the day’s special, a gaspacho with watermelon garnish that was fresh and clean, just right for the heat. Her entree was an aged goat cheese ravioli, with a pine nut sauce that made her gasp at how it could be nutty and creamy at the same time. I ordered the pork confit, which for being such a commonly offered starter was refreshingly new with a pickled salad of onions, cauliflower and currants on a bed of two sauces, one creamy cauliflower and one savory brown. The pickled veg cut through the rich fattiness of the pork, which was just crisped enough to avoid being called greasy. I also had the steak, which came again very old-school with a potato gratin and simply cooked brocolini. Everything was perfectly cooked; my steak was pink in the middle, my brocolini was a verdant green. The only thing we objected to was the thickness of the ravioli, though the order was portioned exactly and was not too filling. We finished off the meal with a sampling of deserts, my favorite being the smoothest raspberry panna cotta I’d ever had. Both the pain perdue, a french-toast confection with caramel apple, and the pineapple upside-down cake were soft and moist, and the fruit tart was again a twist on a classic with a slab of creamy mascarpone meringue atop scintillating berries.

Twist on a classic is the operative phrase at MPD. Our server Brian was well-informed and personable, but beyond him and the hostess the support staff was quiet and unobtrusive. Yea, you read right- support staff. Being a twenty-something living in New York City, I’m used to hole-in-the-wall places with limited serving staff. Here, I had one server bring me the food, one to set the proper silverware, and one with a gargantuan pepper grinder patiently waiting at your elbow. Every so often somebody would pass by and FOLD YOUR NAPKIN. Frankly, it started to make me a little uncomfortable, but by our entree course it all began to fall into place. These days, New York City is all about innovention and creativity, with burger bars, food trucks and gastropubs sprouting up all over the place. We’ve lost sight of the classic fine dining experience. The food was amazing, yes, but dining out was always about people serving you, taking the weight of the everyday off your shoulders for an hour or two. Admittedly, there were drawbacks. The music, for example, was a mix of heart-racing club techno and cloying nineties pop ballads, obviously designed for a specific clientele. In addition, it escalated in volume until by the end of the night the place was like a club. In fact on the weekends one can pass by and see people dancing on the tables. The madness would be an experience in itself, colt-like legs everywhere and sparklers going off seemingly at random.This is definitely a weekday restaurant if you’re going for the food. For whatever motive you choose to visit MPD, however, I can guarantee an authentic meatpacking district good time. What the Ginza group and the Koch brothers have done is bring us a taste of old Europe, and let us know what its like to be royalty, or at least, obscenely rich, for the cost of one fantastic meal.

Original post: http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/27/from-mob-hangout-to-tea-shop-with-extras/?scp=1&sq=sullivan%20street%20tea&st=cse

We actually just discovered this place that day, even spoke with the photographer who took this picture. The owner Mark is almost constantly there, and is generally chock-full of tea tidbits. As an ingratiated tea addict, I have to say the man has the most varied and wide-ranging tea selection I’ve ever seen, many of them very mellow blends that befit such a mellow man. The spices are simply fantastic, and even for a professional cook like myself, the collection is impressive. Near the back are even different gradations of hot pepper, including the deadly habanero in ground form. He even has different lengths of vanilla bean!

Secondly, the second film just sucked so much! Bay took out everything meaningful and characterful out of Revenge of the Fallen and just replaced it with bigger explosions, more of his famous jump cuts, and increasingly inappropriate dialogue. This gave me hope for the third film because Bay himself admitted he had done a terrible job. I was all on board for a saving grace.

The recent Prime series on the Hub has been overflowing with smart, modern writing and elegantly planned plots, not to mention a certain deliciously evil spider-bot I can’t wait to get my hands on. How the hell do you get a decepticon into a bustle? But I digress.

Lastly, the girlfriend factor. My girlfriend DOES NOT ENJOY MY TRANSFORMERS. Though she insists on supporting my hobby by displaying them on our shelves, she detests their aesthetic completely. You will understand the level of pique she aroused in my interest when she turned to me after the DOTM trailer and said: “Huh. This looks like a real movie.”

And, suffice it to say, a real friggin movie it turned out to be. For fans and casual film-goers alike,Transformers: Dark of the Moon is transformers done right. Many fans have already mentioned that this was the sequel they were looking for or that this was the film Bay set out to make. I’m sure many have commenced to pretend the second movie never existed, though this is actually a mistake.

Dark of the Moon sets out to make Transformers gritty and real again, in much the same way the first movie did for the original franchise. To understand some of what’s happened, and in turn emphasize the drama of the third film, its important to have seen the buildup of serious adult themes in the previous two. Instead of animated children’s films, the trailer before DOTM is: Mission Impossible. Bay set the bar for giant robot action in the first film, and now he’s set a second bar for adult themes and relevant interests.

Government conspiracy, ancient powerful artifacts, all the film’s important plot points are set out elsewhere so I will save you the details. Suffice it to say the imagery is simple but effective, particularly the Megatron scene where he destroys the statue of Lincoln, pushing the continuing theme that the Decepticons are more than meets the eye; they are not just engines of destruction, but cunning, scheming masterminds so interred in human government, human affairs and human weapons they almost become human themselves. Megatron destroys Lincoln because he understands Honest Abe’s significance to humankind; in that respect he understands us better than even Optimus Prime, gallantly imploring the world’s leaders in the naive hope that they will listen. Important plot twists are genuinely surprising, and if you are a transformers fan they will accomplish the impressive feat of leading you to guess the next hair-raising turn, and the next, and the next. The excitement rolls one into the next, quickly enough for the simple plot to become extremely diverting. The breakneck clip allows the viewer to suspend character development if only to watch Prime knuckle-duster Shockwave into oblivion, or Sam Whitwicky scream in panic as Bumblebee transforms around him going ninety on a highway, bits of decepticon corpses exploding all around him. Foreshadowing is also accomplished with a little finesse in the form of Wheelie and Brains, but Bay was never known for such advanced film techniques. DOTM is still rife with Bay’s brain-jarring jump cuts, foulmouthed lines and confusing plot developments, but given what’s been accomplished, they aren’t really more than speed bumps on a beautifully rendered roller-coaster ride. The overpowered ending is really icing on the cake- its the payoff you’ve spent the whole movie building up to, and it delivers in spades.

Transformers history is beautifully represented here, and the Matrix does the job it was intended for, as a symbol of leadership. Soundwave, Shockwave and the Wreckers tickled my fancy plotwise, especially when Soundwave displayed frightening propensity for cruelty and Shockwave a cold, calculating, yet bestial commander. The Wreckers were a surprising delight to see on screen, simultaneously entertaining and capable, unlike the twins of ROTF. Design wise, I’m particularly looking forward to the deluxe figures of the Ferrari Dino and the AMG Soundwave, as well as the last wrecker Leadfoot to fill out the trio.

When the movie was over, I turned to my girlfriend and she was all a twitter in her seat, something she did at Suckerpunch, Scott Pilgrim and Inception. We spent the evening discussing the finer points of Bay’s style, the plot, and how if she could direct it it would be more to her taste. When she got home, she stopped being annoyed at my transformers and started to personify them with their own personalities. To summarize: This is a giant robot movie that can convert A GIRL. Go see it already!

Shockwave watches you every moment you’re not watching DOTM- with his mono-eye!

Super 8 is the story of a group of kids who are out to shoot their own zombie movie in the wake of a tragedy in their midst, hence the title reference to 8mm film. As they go about their suburban childhood developing cute crushes by night and building train models by day, they stumble onto a horrific train crash that envelops the budding filmmakers in a growing catastrophe. The best way to describe this film: If you dropped the Goonies into ET and shot it like Cloverfield, then laced it liberally with easter eggs, you’d get Super 8.

My girlfriend actually began elbowing me about my insistent whispering when the film began, telling me that this was not that kind of film. She was right. Super 8 does not grab your attention or make it simple from the get-go like many films are doing these days. The pacing and layout of the film does not fall into the nonstop media feedback model that many horror or action flicks do, for example the opening chopper flight of Battle for LA. What it does do is take time to set up every nuance, foreshadow and character empathy, and I appreciated that. Not only do we see our protagonist mourning his recently deceased mother, we also see his friends naturally curious about what a human body would look like crushed under a steel beam. This theme of childhood growth and innocence persists throughout the film, tempering the horrific moments and dramatizing the adults’ conflicts by comparison. By the end of the film, that innocence becomes our heroes’ saving grace, not just by the fortuitious placement of the kid with braces having firecrackers, but by the life lessons learned by everyone involved.

The special effects are nothing we haven’t seen before, but these are deployed beautifully. Like the super 8 film being made by the kids, this film is less about the technical prowess and more about the meaning of each effect. The train crash, while excellently done in CGI, achieves its full impact because it is exploding around a group that the audience has come to find endearing beyond the mere fact that they are children. You care that the blood covering the shrapnel might belong to the chubby director, or the actor who pukes when he’s nervous, or the hardass actress. It must be said, also, that many of the special effects avoided CGI entirely, such as the real tanks running amok later in the film. This harkens back again to the inexpensive but certainly relevant effects in the kids’ film, showing us that eye candy is not necessary for a good film. The easter eggs Abrams leaves us further presses that fact: The Evil Dead references, the fact that the monster is not revealed until the end, the model train ‘explosion,’ all bring us back to the nostalgia of the medium when it was still a vessel for the imagination and not just some mass-marketed product. I especially loved the minimal use of period artifacts, such as the Walkmen, the classic cars lining the street, and the childrens’ bicycles that really cemented our connection with the setting beyond simple nostalgia. I felt like I could have lived on that street, biked across it to my friend’s noisy crowded house, could have visited that film shop and met that stoner clerk. Music  falls to the background save where it is needed, such as the use of My Sharona for period effect. That, again, shows the film’s penchant for allowing the viewer to imagine what he will and react naturally.

The plot is glorious, and I will leave it at that, because Abrams and crew have done a wonderful job at layering and weaving the story together and it would be a shame to ruin it for you. Suffice it to say, this is one for the ages, and you’ll want to watch and savor it over and over, finding the easter eggs, sharing in the kids’ bravery and especially watching their Super 8 film in the credits. I do hope our portly director wins his contest, because he deserves it.

http://www.liveintheater.com/ryancase/index.htm

The Ryan Case! If you don’t already know me, I’m sort of a steampunk fan, and the basis of the aesthetic rests on turn-of-the century times and tribulations. This production showcases a lot of those late 1800s themes in a unique way, by using the backdrop of modern-day chinatown and changing it in a subtle alchemy of pitch-perfect accent and on-the-spot improvisation. Get your flux capactiors running, because we’re headed back to Five Points, New York, 1873, a noir landscape of Irish immigrants, corrupt cops and murder most foul.

Now, for starters I more or less grew up in Chinatown. It’s hard not to find yourself there as a young  child fresh off the boat, or stay away from it long enough to miss the nostalgia of home. Take it from me then, that LiveInTheater has done a remarkable job in transforming the environs enough to take you away from the bustle of fruit vendors or staring housewives. Basically, the production has you and your group taking a roundabout route through the neighborhood, through streets that most New Yorkers would find strange or archaic. Most of the old tenement housing is still there, as well as many Asian inspired buildings that throw a foreign look to the city. After that, the extraordinary cast takes over, of which the cop, landlord and the lady of the evening have become my favorites.

Using a combination of seriously professional acting and gritty costuming, each of the six dubious characters commands his or her own personal stage of a street corner or park bench, displaying the brilliant feats of crowd control, improvisation, timing and complete immersion in their character. The actor will wait until he sees the bright detective’s cap of the group, and accost them or ennunciate loudly to catch their attention. Afterward it is up to the group to ask questions, test the actor’s cunning improv, and extract vital details that could lead to the solving of the Ryan case. Seeing the actors in three dimensions gives extra appreciation of their craft, compared to the two-dimensional classic theatre experience.I particularly like the fact that each actor is given immense personal performance space, before all are thrown together in the end to reveal whodunit. In one brilliant stroke, the start of the production is in the alley of Mosco street, a slanted, gently grimy pathway just around the corner from a street full of mortuaries.

Undoubtedly the production is low budget, but instead of suffering from a lack of backdrop or props, the limited scope of the production leads one to focus on the set being created under your own two feet, the intricacies of the case, and the minute body language and line delivery of the actors. Every one of them is a master storyteller, and soon they’ll have you analyzing motives, placing time lines and considering pieces of evidence, a mental activity that will take you deeper and deeper into the lives and hardships of the characters.

At the end of the production, I really felt like I was making headway into a real case. There’s also replay value, because the details of the case are extremely flexible and the producer mentioned they were developing alternate endings. For the so inclined it is entirely possible to act along with the cast and really play the part of a rookie Holmes wannabe in a genuine mystery that changes with every tour of the neighborhood. It doesn’t hurt either that the commanding officer said my team was the closest to solving the case, either =p.

If you’re interested in a preview of the production, you may catch sight of the actors in Chinatown in full period dress. However, I strongly urge you to take the full experience, as each encounter is different and the interaction cannot be reproduced. Also, Mr. Burke may accuse you of cheating, after he asks if you have a bit of whiskey on you.

Also this weekend, my car dropped her exhaust on the highway and the two of us had to MacGuyver it back into place:

Track list includes: The Darth Vader theme, Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen

Of course, wondrous metropolitan moments like these don’t happen every day. Sometimes food service is so slow, and you’ve done all the preparations you can for the next day (prepping sauces, cooking veg, etc) that you start noticing things like:

All you DBZ fans out there, I present: The King of All VEGETA.

Recently however, I’ve been seeing how some other folks are using this remarkable tool, and okay, fine, there’s a lot that can be done with it. Stories, personal quests, and useful diy are only some of the things that have made me stop and go, “well dayum, that’s some grade-A memoir, not some buttermilk bull$h!7.” Far be it for me to tear down the Babylonian tower of self-obsession that defines today’s information age America, right?

Right! That brings me to the title of the blog, newly birthed and dripping with the brain juice of inspiration. Allow me to, ironically, delve into some personal history:

Hello everyone! I’m a young professional cook in the glamorous and aptly named meatpacking district of New York City. I graduated from culinary school right here, in the hard seedy core of the big apple, approximately one year ago and have been working in the industry for about 9 months, give or take a volunteer experience here or indentured servitude there. I also have a bachelor’s in media and communication, and apologies to my alma mater but all that really amounts to is a major in procrastination.

I started my culinary career  in a frantic frenzy of unemployment and self-hate. Here I was, in my twenties, fresh out of college all shiny and edumacated, and I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I had gone to all the classes, tried all the disciplines, and when I had run out of ideas decided to do something a little more practical: I was going to be in an industry that was up and growing, and had been for the entirety of human civilization.

Seriously! Who doesn’t eat? It’s not merely a question of sustaining yourself anymore, eating, like sex, nearly defines us as a conscious species. Your very identity is wrapped up in what, where, how, when, and for some very limited cultures, who you eat. Every major philosophical question a person might have can be boiled down to a metaphor about food. Do you have compassion for all living creatures and wish they would be awesome Zen masters like yourself? Become a vegetarian. Do you sneer at vegetarians on the street and wish they could be as hard-core as you? Become a vegan. Do you wish you had a warehouse-sized industrial complex in which to smoke meat? Become a barbecuian. Not to say I look down on any of these categories, though cooks are notoriously hateful about vegetarians who come to restaurants and order a goddamn steamed vegetable plate for twenty dollars that they could easily cook at home and not bother us with while there are twenty tickets on the board and about a hundred people waiting to be sat on a busy Saturday night. Nope, not at all bitter about it. In fact, my lovely girlfriend is a vegetarian, and I have the best creative time figuring out what she’d like for dinner- AT HOME. We actually complain about people who complain about going to vegetarian restaurants. If you haven’t had a deep-fried soy burger with sweet potato fries, please, I beg of you, find a vegetarian friend to take you to a vegetarian restaurant and leave us red-meat-flipping cooks alone.

Hum. First proper blog and I’ve already slipped into ranting. Well done, Vox my boy, well freaking done.

At any rate, when I finally plucked up the courage and went on a trail (interview, but in chef-jargon) two things occurred which might have blown me out of the water before I even picked up my knife:

1) I came to the interview wearing a t-shirt.

2) the shirt read “Born to rock, forced to work.”

Now in any other industry, the interviewer probably would take one look and either call security or call their colleagues in to have a good belly laugh at the noob. Not so with cooking! Aye, even one as thick and sleep-deprived as I can enter a kitchen in NEW YORK CITY and murder a shackful of shallots in a shameful display of knife butchery and still get a job! To be honest, I was really really sincere about it.

And so, my working relationship with one of the best kitchens i’ve been in began. Part of the reason it’s been so awesome is that I helped build it. That’s right, when I came in on that fateful interview, the restaurant hadn’t even been open. Bits of it were still covered in tarpaulin, and we had one stove and an unfinished walk-in of a kitchen. More on that later.

Suffice it to say, I’ve had an incredible time. Kitchen work is like a roller coaster, with ups and downs, stressful times, and sometimes people will  have sex in the employee bathroom while you’re trying to change and go home. Good times. There’s pressure- lots of pressure. Even if you’ve done all the preparation work (mise en place, or everything in its place in the French) and you’re convinced there’s nothing more to do that could possibly improve your situation, the guy downstairs could be short on something that needs to be cut on the fly, on a whirling blade the size of your face, and the only guy who can do it is you. Or, the runner could drop your food. Or, an order can be sent back because someone can’t tell what a medium rare is. We’ve had one guy send back a thirty-seven dollar rack of lamb because he suspected the “quality of the lamb was sub-par.” Perfectly cooked, but sub par. Still, at the end of the day when every plate has been sent out and every diner stuffed full, and you’re just hanging back post-coitus with your knife cooling in its sheath and a beer in your hand, somebody next to you will pull a pan of browned onions and peppers and charred meat with a pile of toasty warm soft tortillas on the side, and you’ll lean back and think, this is what I came in for. A lot of guys will cave on the pressure and call out, or make up some excuse not to work. On the off-chance there are tacos, I always come in. Doesn’t matter if I know I’m getting chewed out, or my station is a mess because the lunch guys leave all their crap there, or I have to make forty orders of beef carpaccio in the space of twenty minutes. I come in because sometimes, when my job is done, there will be tacos.

We join humanity on another of their endless voyages, on a fleet many light years from home, a fleet expectantly titled Exceed. Bolstered by advanced fold technology, the ship is far removed from their fellows, though travel between them is now possible. The abyss of space spreads in all directions around them, and though not a soul stirs in that endless deep, there is life here in this small cluster of fifty ships, specifically in the ship in the center of the cluster, protected on all sides by smaller carriers and destroyers. In the darkness, the dome of the Main Exceed Island is shrouded in night, but the pinpricks shine like a sun.

With a soundless roar, a battalion of three variable fighters zips across the dome, leaving just-visible trails of exhaust. The lead fighter is the iconic VF-25-P, the much-improved production version of the hero fighter of Macross Frontier. It’s been repainted red, with yellow lightning bolts. Following in its wake are two black VF-172 Deep Nightmares, outfitted with missile attachments. Further off, an identical squadron streaks over a different section of the dome, the lead fighter painted classic white.

As the machines streak across a particular section of the dome, the Deep Nightmares release a cloud of missiles. After each one tears across space, it explodes into a cloud of multi-colored sparks. Below, an answering spray of color and smoke answer, and bursts of spotlights dot the darkened city. It is Lynn Minmay Day on Macross Exceed.

Far below, in the streets of the city, a girl stumbles and trips as she cranes her neck to see the brilliant display above. Her dull gray scarf flaps in the artificial wind as she manages to recover and stare in mute wonder. The chill space beyond the dome explodes and the sidewalk is dyed a plethora of colors as the fireworks go off closer overhead. Everyone stands still as the music begins to play.

“Right now I hear your voice, calling me here…” the girl sings quietly to herself. All around her, the city is lit with enormous displays of a Minmay concert, though the singer is only one of many. Several blocks away, the color splashes in a faster rhythm as a Fire Bomber tribute band plays. Tonight, everything is allowed. Tonight, the girl feels safe to free herself, to dance in the street and sign to her heart’s delight. It is dark, and brightly colored figures shade her pale figure from prying eyes. She lifts her face to the gentle wash of color and the voices streaming down to her. All around are people in costume, bright clothes wearing bright smiles. On her pale face, surrounded by auburn hair, a smaller smile echoes them. She lets her loose-fitting sweater slip around her, and her long brown skirt lifts gently as she begins to spin.

“Oof!” She grunts as she slams into someone. Luckily, she feels strong hands gripping her and a warm smile appears over her. He is tall, her age, and framed in dark locks. For a second the girl wonders if he is a pilot, and whether her heart normally beat that fast. Then she comes to her senses, and tilts her face so it is in shadow.

“Miss, are you alright?” The young man says to her. He is still smiling, and the girl realizes she has been in his arms for over a minute. Sheepishly, she collects herself as the young man puts her upright again.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” She cries. “You must think me terribly rude.” Terribly rude? Who the hell says that? She thinks privately. The young man seems unperturbed, however.

“Please, it was my fault for being in the way. Don’t let me stop you,” he replies, and begins to walk away. The girl hesitates for a split second; it is not in her nature. A slideshow of doubt and fear and hope fly across her face, and then she is reaching out for his hand. The dark sleeve feels coarse, and she notices he is wearing a matching set just as unsuited to the festivities as her own clothes are. The man has turned around.

“Is there something else?” He asks, not unkindly.

“Umm..” She manages, “Please, if you’re not too busy, I wanted to catch the live broadcast of Ranka’s set, over in Times Square. Maybe you could.. umm.. come with me?” She flashes him her best smile, and after a second, he smiles back. He looks a little surprised, but happily so.

“I would love to, but I will have to leave soon after,” He answers. His hand is now clasped around hers.

“That’s okay, I have to go to work after,” she blurts out. A flush spreads across her like a rose in bloom, camouflaged by the shimmering street. Luckily her new friend seems not to notice, and instead begins to walk her to Times Square. Soon they are involved in heated discussion as they pass from the Lynn section of the city into the Fire Bomber one, and then a solid block of Sheryl Nome costumers. Happily, she notices he is paying no attention to the dominatrix uniforms and loose dresses. Naturally their conversation is about music. She fights earnestly for the classic Lyn pop style, while he prefers the rock of Basara. Soon there is no danger of being drowned out by music, but neither grew angry, only increasingly passionate.

They arrive in the square to this lively soundtrack. The space is a miniature replica of the Times Square on Earth. Surrounding them are scale replicas of the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State building and even the Twin Towers, designed to immerse the crowd in the environs as much as possible. The young man comments on this almost as she is opening her mouth to do the same, and she tells him so. It is his turn to blush, and this time there is nothing to hide behind; she elects to save him this embarrassment. She could not have timed this better. Soon an entire side of the building lights up- the concert is about to begin.

“Carrots love you, everybody!” comes the miles-high voice of Ranka Lee, not a bit lessened by her newfound maturity. Through embedded speakers, her cheerful voice erupts from every street corner. It is answered by the tinkle of laughter as her fans remember the early days when Ranka was a carrot salesgirl. Far removed from it now, she is glamorous in a mature, sparkling version of her waitress outfit, ten stories high and hovering over the crowd. Some amorous fans begin to titter about remembering her old commercials on Frontier, but they are cut short as the first song begins. It is a classic, a Lyn Minmay song about boyfriends and high-performance aircraft.

The girl and young man are lost in the crowd as the rhythm takes them. They sway to the motion of the crowd, through the pop energy and the newer, more mature renditions. The man takes out a tiny silver lighter, while the girl holds up her glowing cell phone just as Ranka breaks out the slow finale. All around them, points of light are springing up, and soon the crowd becomes one living organism. Our girl feels an arm around her, and she puts hers around his waist. When the crowd begins to break up, the two remain for a moment. Let us leave them to their moment, and take our leave to a bar on the edge of the city.

“Where the hell is that girl?” roars a middle-aged woman with flaming pink hair. Not by any means unattractive in her generously cut neon blue dress, the resulting recoil is due to the fact that the bar is her domain, ruled with an iron fist and plenty of whiskey. The patrons are not actually disturbed, and many of them will admit off-hand that they recoil to get a rise out of her. One of them goes a step further.

“Oi, Rose, shut up for two seconds, we’re trying to watch the Ranka concert!” A scruffy gentleman in a hooded sweatshirt calls from the corner. A couple of similar characters are huddled around him and a small portable monitor. She pays him no mind, but does take a shining pump off the bar and walks around to the stage. The bar is sparse with gentlemen of this persuasion at the moment, but the woman in the blue dress knows it will be very different once the concert is over. It is dimly lit, with pools of lukewarm spotlights dotting the open space in front of the few raised boards of the stage. Cables are strewn across it, as are two bored looking young ladies. One of them is playing with a pair of sticks over a set of drums, while the other lights a match off the frets of a bass leaning on a stand. They are both in simple tops, shiny piercings and tight black jeans. One of them has a Sid Vicious hawk. It is to this one that the pink-haired woman begins to storm at, each word punctuated by a tiny wiggle of hip.

“Listen, I’m not paying you to lounge around. If Violet Vierge doesn’t show up in five minutes, I’m cutting your pay,” She spits.

“That’s not what we agreed on, Auntie,” says the Mohawk girl. She calmly lights a hand-rolled cigarette, produced as if by sleight of hand. She takes a puff, savoring it. The drummer has dropped her drumsticks, though and moves forward to appeal to Rose.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, this isn’t a brothel, don’t call me Auntie-“ Rose begins, but the drummer’s soft white hand falls on her shoulder and cuts her short. The hand belongs to a platinum blonde with a bob cut, glittering in makeup.

“Please, Boss, don’t mind Vivi, you know what she’s like. Violet will definitely show up, she’s only going to look at the bands,” the blond says in a soothing voice. She bends over on the stage to reach Rose, well aware of the older woman’s view.

“Well… I suppose I can give her some leeway, the place won’t fill up for awhile. Fifteen minutes, okay, Vanessa? No more,” Rose spits, and walks back to the counter where a highball full of whiskey awaits.

“Fucking wrinkled dyke,” Vivi says, tapping out her cigarette on a handy amp. “Where is Violet anyway?”

“Come on Viv, you know Auntie doesn’t mean it,” Vanessa says peacefully. She straightens up and pinches the cigarette neatly from Vivi’s fingers.

“I just wish we didn’t always have to come back and play here,” Vivi sighs. Vanessa takes a puff and returns the ember to Vivi’s fingers.

“That’s what Violet always says,” Vanessa points out. The two grin for a split second, and perhaps we can assume from their expressions that they know Violet Vierge better than they let on.

Meanwhile, high above the city, the battalions of fighters are just finishing the last round of fireworks. A red VF-25-P soars ahead of its battalion, doing a swift somersault. In the cockpit, sleek black controls flicker and beep peacefully. Their lights join the starlight flipping across the stoic red helmet of the pilot strapped in, his hands gently easing the controls this way and that. Two VF172’s show up on either side of the dark glass, and the pilot’s control panel begins to beep more insistently. He toggles a switch.

“Lieutenant Seras, this may be a non-combat exercise, but I would appreciate it if you don’t treat that expensive aircraft like your plaything,” the console says in a rough, deep voice. To match the voice, an image of the speaker appears on the glass of the cockpit, translucent so the pilot can see the dome on the other side.

“Sorry Commander May, I was just testing the craft’s responsiveness,” Lieutenant Seras replies. He thumbs a button on the side of his helmet, turning the visor clear and revealing blue eyes shaded by a lock of pale hair.

“Bullshit, Lieutenant. I’m just as anxious to get to the festivities as you are,” The Commander replies. He thumbs his own visor clear so Seras can see him wink through grizzled gray eyes. “Still, these are relatively new VF’s so please don’t wreck them. Exceed’s resources are stretched tight for the long-range fold tomorrow.”

“Yes sir. Driving like my grandma, sir.”

“Good man,” the Commander replies. Seras toggles the imager to show the Commander’s squadron on the other side of the dome, releasing their final volley. The lead white plane dips a wing in greeting. A different beep comes up, and Seras hits the switch.

“First day on the job and they stick you with public stunt duty, I feel your pain,” comes a feminine voice. The cockpit is rigged with surround sound, and the voice sounds like it comes from the VF-172 on the pilot’s left. An image pops up, of a trace of green hair and deep, pool-like eyes.

“Officer Delia, was it? Thanks,” Seras answers. Another beep sounds on his right, and he toggles open the channel.

“She’s not the only one. I’d rather be back on patrol duty, to be honest,” the black pilot in the other VF-172 says. “I’ve read our squad’s files, Lieutenant. Don’t you think it’s odd that UN Spacy pulled their top simulation pilots out for fireworks duty one day before the big fold?”

“You are a natural cynic, Officer Malcolm?” Seras asks. “Or just trying to flatter us?”

“I’m just being pragmatic, sir. These are top-end fighters, carrying live ammunition. They must expect something.”

“Our standard patrols haven’t changed. If the top brass knew something, they would have increased active duty,” Delia pipes up. “Payload is almost out, let’s make one more pass.”

“Delia is right. I think this is just a public relations stunt, and having live ammunition is a sensible policy,” Seras answers. “Let’s just finish our rounds and get down to the bars.”

“Be careful sir, I hear Zentradi women are hard to topple,” Malcolm says, hooking a thumb towards the other VF-172.

“Hear hear,” cheers Delia, and gives a maidenly laugh. Malcolm adds his baritone to the jingle, forcing Seras to give up and join in. They come around the dome for their final pass, and Seras thinks he sees a sparkle of light and activity beyond the dome.

“Heh, I’m getting as paranoid as Malcolm,” he whispers under his breath, and puts his VF into a barrel roll. The glimmer is lost in the sparkle of the city and the starlight.

Far below him in the Exceed dome, fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds late, Violet Vierge finally arrives in a flurry of brown skirt, gray scarf and full-body blush. Understandably lacking the peace of mind to enter through the back of the bar, but agile enough to slip behind it, the girls spot her amongst the darkened crowd and let out a puff of relieved smoke. Violet spots a chance and dives for the small changing room hidden behind a curtain.

“What took you so long Vi?” Vanessa asks as she catches the tripping Violet. Her clothes are disheveled, as if she’s been running through the crowd.

“Ehehe,” Violet manages through her flush.

“Hurry up,” Vivi says good-naturedly, even as a cloud of clothes flutters around her.

The bar is full of patrons scattered amongst the tall stools and tables on the perimeter. Most of them are riding out the high fresh from the street, just standing and lounging, but a few look impatient. In the corner, Rose is tapping her foot hard enough to set her own beat in the crowded bar.

“Those girls better work their asses off-“ Rose begins to bitch, but she is cut off as the lights go dark.

“FUCK DECULTURE!” A voice explodes into the dark. Spotlights come on, and Violet is transformed- hair streaked in pinks, torn shirt showing taut skin, thick black soles tapping out to Vanessa’s powerful drum rhythm. Vivi plays a strong, heart-jerking bass line with her head down, completely nonchalant. Violet lets go of the microphone and slips confidently to the black Les Paul, riffs like electricity rolling from her gloved fingers. The Vees’ show is on.

The next morning, after the discreet 4am fold, Exceed wakes up to find one of the herd missing.